Before They Are Hanged (6 page)

“We are most glad to have you with us. We have all been greatly concerned since the disappearance of your predecessor, Superior Davoust.”
Some of you, I expect, have been less concerned than others.

“I hope to shed some light on the matter.”

“We all hope that you will.” She took Glokta’s elbow with an effortless confidence. “Please allow me to make the introductions.”

Glokta refused to be moved. “Thank you, Magister, but I believe I can make my own.” He shuffled across to the table under his own power, such as it was. “You must be General Vissbruck, charged with the city’s defence.” The General was in his middle forties, running slightly to baldness, sweating abundantly in an elaborate uniform, buttoned all the way to the neck in spite of the heat.
I remember you. You were in Gurkhul, in the war. A Major in the King’s Own, and well known for being an ass. It seems you have done well, at least, as asses generally do.

“A pleasure,” said Vissbruck, scarcely even glancing up from his documents.

“It always is, to renew an old acquaintance.”

“We’ve met?”

“We fought together in Gurkhul.”

“We did?” A spasm of shock ran over Vissbruck’s sweaty face. “You’re…
that
Glokta?”

“I am indeed, as you say,
that
Glokta.”

The General blinked. “Er, well, er… how have you been?”

“In very great pain, thank you for asking, but I see that you have prospered, and that is a tremendous consolation.” Vissbruck blinked, but Glokta did not give him time to reply. “And this must be Lord Governor Vurms. A positive honour, your Grace.”

The old man was a caricature of decrepitude, shrunken into his great robes of state like a withered plum in its furry skin. His hands seemed to shiver even in the heat, his head was shiny bald aside from a few white wisps. He squinted up at Glokta through weak and rheumy eyes.

“What did he say?” The Lord Governor stared about him in confusion. “Who is this man?”

General Vissbruck leaned across, so close his lips almost brushed the old man’s ear. “Superior Glokta, your Grace! The replacement for Davoust!”

“Glokta? Glokta? Where the hell is Davoust anyway?” No one bothered to reply.

“I am Korsten dan Vurms.” The Lord Governor’s son spoke his own name as though it was a magic spell, offered his hand to Glokta as though it was a priceless gift. He was blond-haired and handsome, spread out carelessly in his chair, a well-tanned glow of health about him, as lithe and athletic as his father was ancient and wizened.
I despise him already.

“I understand that you were once quite the swordsman.” Vurms looked Glokta up and down with a mocking smile. “I fence myself, and there’s really no one here to challenge me. Perhaps we might have a bout?”
I’d love to, you little bastard. If I still had my leg I’d give you a bout of the shits before I was done.

“I did fence but, alas, I had to give it up. Ill health.” Glokta leered back a toothless smile of his own. “I daresay I could still give you a few pointers, though, if you’re keen to improve.” Vurms frowned at that, but Glokta had already moved on. “You must be Haddish Kahdia.”

The Haddish was a tall, slender man with a long neck and tired eyes. He wore a simple white robe, a plain white turban wound about his head.
He looks no more prosperous than any of the other natives down in the lower City, and yet there is a certain dignity about him.

“I am Kahdia, and I have been chosen by the people of Dagoska to speak for them. But I no longer call myself Haddish. A priest without a temple is no priest at all.”

“Must we still hear about the temple?” whined Vurms.

“I am afraid you must, while I sit on this council.” He looked back at Glokta. “So there is a new Inquisitor in the city? A new devil. A new bringer of death. Your comings and goings are of no interest to me, torturer.”

Glokta smiled.
Confessing his hatred for the Inquisition without even seeing my instruments. But then his people can hardly be expected to have much love for the Union, they’re little better than slaves in their own city. Could he be our traitor?

Or him?
General Vissbruck seemed every inch a loyal military man, a man whose sense of duty was too strong, and whose imagination was too weak, for intrigue.
But few men become Generals without looking to their own profit, without oiling the wheels, without keeping some secrets.

Or him?
Korsten dan Vurms was sneering at Glokta as though at a badly-cleaned latrine he had to use.
I’ve seen his like a thousand times, the arrogant whelp. The Lord Governor’s own son, perhaps, but it’s plain enough he has no loyalty to anyone beyond himself.

Or her?
Magister Eider was all comely smiles and politeness, but her eyes were hard as diamonds.
Judging me like a merchant judges an ignorant customer. There’s more to her than fine manners and a weakness for foreign tailoring. Far more.

Or him?
Even the old Lord Governor seemed suspect now.
Are his eyes and ears as bad as he claims? Or is there a hint of play-acting in his squinting, his demands to know what’s going on? Does he already know more than anyone?

Glokta turned and limped towards the window, leaned against the beautifully carved pillar beside it and peered out at the astonishing view, the evening sun still warm on his face. He could already feel the council members shifting restlessly, keen to be rid of him.
I wonder how long before they order the cripple out of their beautiful room? I do not trust a one of them. Not a one.
He smirked to himself.
Precisely as it should be.

It was Korsten dan Vurms who lost patience first. “Superior Glokta,” he snapped. “We appreciate your thoroughness in presenting yourself here, but I am sure you have urgent business to attend to. We certainly do.”

“Of course.” Glokta hobbled back to the table with exaggerated slowness as if he were leaving the room. Then he slid out a chair and lowered himself into it, wincing at the pain in his leg. “I will try to keep my comments to a minimum, at least to begin with.”

“What?” said Vissbruck.

“Who is this fellow?” demanded the Lord Governor, craning forwards and squinting with his weak eyes. “What is going on here?”

His son was more direct. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded. “Are you mad?” Haddish Kahdia began to chuckle softly to himself. At Glokta, or at the rage of the others, it was impossible to say.

“Please, gentlemen, please.” Magister Eider spoke softly, patiently. “The Superior has only just arrived, and is perhaps ignorant of how we conduct business in Dagoska. You must understand that your predecessor did not attend these meetings. We have been governing this city successfully for several years, and—”

“The Closed Council disagrees.” Glokta held up the King’s writ between two fingers. He let everyone look at it for a moment, making sure they could see the heavy seal of red and gold, then he flicked it across the table.

The others stared over suspiciously as Carlot dan Eider picked up the document, unfolded it and started to read. She frowned, then raised one well-plucked eyebrow. “It seems that we are the ignorant ones.”

“Let me see that!” Korsten dan Vurms snatched the paper out of her hands and started to read it. “It can’t be,” he muttered. “It can’t be!”

“I’m afraid that it is.” Glokta treated the assembly to his toothless leer. “Arch Lector Sult is most concerned. He has asked me to look into the disappearance of Superior Davoust, and also to examine the city’s defences. To examine them carefully, and to ensure that the Gurkish stay on the other side of them. He has instructed me to use whatever measures I deem necessary.” He gave a significant pause. “Whatever… measures.”

“What is that?” grumbled the Lord Governor. “I demand to know what is going on!”

Vissbruck had the paper now. “The King’s writ,” he breathed, mopping his sweaty forehead on the back of his sleeve, “signed by all twelve chairs on the Closed Council. It grants full powers!” He laid it down gently on the inlaid table-top, as though worried it might suddenly burst into flames. “This is—”

“We all know what it is.” Magister Eider was watching Glokta thoughtfully, one fingertip stroking her smooth cheek.
Like a merchant who suddenly becomes aware that her supposedly ignorant customer has fleeced her, and not the other way around.
“It seems Superior Glokta will be taking charge.”

“I would hardly say taking charge, but I will be attending all further meetings of this council. You should consider that the first of a very great number of changes.” Glokta gave a comfortable sigh as he settled into his beautiful chair, stretching out his aching leg, resting his aching back.
Almost comfortable.
He glanced across the frowning faces of the city’s ruling council.
Except, of course, that one of these charming people is most likely a dangerous traitor. A traitor who has already arranged the disappearance of one Superior, and may very well now be considering the removal of a second…

Glokta cleared his throat. “Now then, General Vissbruck, what were you saying as I arrived? Something about the walls?”

The Wounds of the Past

“The mistakes of old,” intoned Bayaz with the highest pomposity, “should be made only once. Any worthwhile education, therefore, must be founded on a sound understanding of history.”

Jezal gave vent to a ragged sigh. Why on earth the old man had undertaken to enlighten him was past his understanding. The towering self-interest, perhaps, of the mildly senile was to blame. In any case, Jezal was unshakable in his determination not to learn a thing.

“…yes, history,” the Magus was musing, “there is a lot of history in Calcis…”

Jezal glanced around him, unimpressed in the extreme. If history was nothing more than age, then Calcis, ancient city-port of the Old Empire, was plainly rich with it. If history went further—to grandeur, to glory, to something which stirred the blood—then it was conspicuously absent.

Doubtless the city had been carefully laid out, with wide, straight streets positioned to give the traveller magnificent views. But what might once have been proud civic vistas, the long centuries had reduced to panoramas of decay. Everywhere there were abandoned houses, empty windows and doorways gazing sadly out into the rutted squares. They passed side-streets choked with weeds, with rubble, with rotting timbers. Half the bridges across the sluggish river had collapsed and never been repaired; half the trees in the broad avenues were dead and withered, throttled by ivy.

There was none of the sheer life that crammed Adua, from the docks, to the slums, to the Agriont itself. Jezal’s home might have sometimes seemed swarming, squabbling, bursting at the seams with humanity, but, as he watched the few threadbare citizens of Calcis traipsing through their rotting relic of a city, he was in no doubt which atmosphere he preferred.

“…you will have many opportunities to improve yourself on this journey of ours, my young friend, and I suggest you take advantage of them. Master Ninefingers in particular, is well worthy of study. I feel you could learn a great deal from him…”

Jezal almost gasped with disbelief. “From that ape?”

“That ape, as you say, is famous throughout the North. The Bloody-Nine, they call him there. A name to fill strong men with fear or courage, depending on which side they stand. A fighter and tactician of deep cunning and matchless experience. Above all, he has learned the trick of saying a great deal less than he knows.” Bayaz glanced across at him. “The precise opposite of some people I could name.”

Jezal frowned and hunched his shoulders. He could see nothing to be learned from Ninefingers apart, perhaps, from how to eat with one’s hands and go days without washing.

“The great forum,” muttered Bayaz, as they passed into a wide, open space. “The throbbing heart of the city.” Even he sounded disappointed. “Here the citizens of Calcis would come to buy and sell, to watch spectacles and hear cases at law, to argue philosophy and politics. In the Old Time it would have been crammed shoulder to shoulder here, until late in the evening.”

There was ample space now. The vast paved area could easily have accommodated fifty times the sorry crowd that was gathered there. The grand statues round the edge were stained and broken, their dirty pedestals leaning at all angles. A few desultory stalls were laid out in the centre, crowded together like sheep in cold weather.

“A shadow of its former glory. Still,” and Bayaz pointed out the dishevelled sculptures, “these are the only occupants that need interest us today.”

“Really, and they are?”

“Emperors of the distant past, my boy, each with a tale to tell.”

Jezal groaned inwardly. He had nothing more than a passing interest in the history of his own country, let alone that of some decaying backwater in the far-flung west of the World. “There’s a lot of them,” he muttered.

“And these are by no means all. The history of the Old Empire stretches back for many centuries.”

“Must be why they call it old.”

“Don’t try to be clever with me, Captain Luthar, you have not the equipment. While your forebears in the Union were running around naked, communicating by gestures and worshipping mud, here my master Juvens was guiding the birth of a mighty nation, a nation that in scale and wealth, in knowledge and grandeur, has never been equalled. Adua, Talins, Shaffa, they are but shadows of the wondrous cities that once thrived in the valley of the great river Aos. This is the cradle of civilisation, my young friend.”

Jezal glanced round him at the sorry statues, the rotting trees, the grimy, the forlorn, the faded streets. “What went wrong?”

“The failure of something great is never a simple matter, but, where there is success and glory, there must also be failure and shame. Where there are both, jealousies must simmer. Envy and pride led by slow degrees to squabbles, then to feuds, then to wars. Two great wars that ended in terrible disasters.” He stepped smartly towards the nearest of the statues. “But disasters are not without their lessons, my boy.”

Jezal grimaced. He needed more lessons like he needed a dose of the cock-rot, and he in no sense felt himself to be anyone’s boy, but the old man was not in the least put off by his reluctance.

“A great ruler must be ruthless,” intoned Bayaz. “When he perceives a threat against his person or authority, he must move swiftly, and with no space left for regret. For an example, we need look no further than the Emperor Shilla.” He gazed up at the marble above them, its features all but entirely worn away by the weather. “When he suspected his chamberlain of harbouring pretensions to the throne, he ordered him put to death on the instant, his wife and all his children strangled, his great mansion in Aulcus levelled to the ground.”
Bayaz
shrugged. “All without the slightest shred of proof. An excessive and a brutal act, but better to act with too much force than too little. Better to be held in fear, than in contempt. Shilla knew this. There is no place for sentiment in politics, do you see?”

“I see that wherever I turn in life there’s always some fucking old dunce trying to give me a lecture.” That was what Jezal thought, but he was not about to say it. The memory of a Practical of the Inquisition bursting apart before his very eyes was still horribly fresh in his mind. The squelching sound of the flesh. The feeling of spots of hot blood pattering across his face. He swallowed and looked down at his shoes.

“I see,” he muttered.

Bayaz’ voice droned on. “Not that a great King need be a tyrant, of course! To gain the love of the common man should always be a ruler’s first aim, for it can be won with small gestures, and yet can last a lifetime.”

Jezal was not about to let that pass, however dangerous the old man might be. It was clear that Bayaz had no practical experience in the arena of politics. “What use is the love of commoners? The nobles have the money, the soldiers, the power.”

Bayaz rolled his eyes at the clouds. “The words of a child, easily tricked by flim-flam and quick hands. Where does the nobles’ money come from, but from taxes on the peasants in the fields? Who are their soldiers, but the sons and husbands of common folk? What gives the lords their power? Only the compliance of their vassals, nothing more. When the peasantry become truly dissatisfied, that power can vanish with terrifying speed. Take the case of the Emperor Dantus.” He gestured up at one of the many statues, one arm broken off at the shoulder, the other holding out a handful of scum in which a rich bloom of moss had taken hold. The loss of his nose, leaving a grimy crater, had left the Emperor Dantus with an expression of eternal embarrassed bewilderment, like a man surprised whilst on the latrine.

“No ruler has ever been more loved by his people,” said Bayaz. “He greeted every man as his equal, always gave half his revenues to the poor. But the nobles conspired against him, fixed on one of their number to replace him, and threw the Emperor into prison while they seized the throne.”

“Did they really?” grunted Jezal, staring off across the half-empty square.

“But the people would not abandon their beloved monarch. They rose from their homes and rioted, and would not be subdued. Some of the conspirators were dragged from their palaces and hung in the streets, the others were cowed, and returned Dantus to his throne. So you see, my lad, that the love of the people is a ruler’s surest shield against danger.”

Jezal sighed. “Give me the support of the lords every time.”

“Hah. Their love is costly, and fickle as the changing wind. Have you not stood in the Lords’ Round, Captain Luthar, while the Open Council is in session?” Jezal frowned. Perhaps there was some grain of truth in the old man’s babble. “Hah. Such is the love of nobles. The best that one can do is to divide them and work on their jealousies, make them compete for small favours, claim the credit for their successes, and most of all ensure that no one of them should grow too powerful, and rise to challenge one’s own majesty.”

“Who is this?” One statue stood noticeably higher than the others. An impressive-seeming man in late middle-age with a thick beard and curling hair. His face was handsome but there was a grim set to his mouth, a proud and wrathful wrinkling of his brow. A man not to be fooled with.

“That is my master, Juvens. Not an Emperor, but the first and last adviser to many. He built the Empire, yet he was also the principal in its destruction. A great man, in so many ways, but great men have great faults.” Bayaz turned his worn staff thoughtfully round in his hand. “One should learn the lessons of history. The mistakes of the past need only be made once.” He paused for a moment. “Unless there are no other choices.”

Jezal rubbed his eyes and stared across the forum. The Crown Prince Ladisla, perhaps, might have benefited from such a lecture, but Jezal rather doubted it. Was this why he had been torn away from his friends, from his hard-earned chance at glory and advancement? To listen to the dusty musings of some strange, bald wanderer?

He frowned. There were a group of three soldiers moving towards them across the square. At first he watched them, uninterested. Then he realised they were looking right at him and Bayaz, and moving directly towards them. Now he saw another group of three, and another, coming from different directions.

Jezal’s throat felt tight. Their armour and weapons, though of an antique design, looked worryingly effective and well-used. Fencing was one thing. Actual fighting, with its possibilities for serious wounding and death, was quite another. It was not cowardice, surely, to feel worried, not with nine armed men very clearly approaching them, and no possible route of escape.

Bayaz had noticed them too. “A welcome appears to have been prepared.”

The nine closed in, faces hard, weapons firmly gripped. Jezal squared his shoulders and did his best to look fearsome while meeting nobody’s eye, and keeping his hands well away from the hilts of his steels. He had no wish whatsoever for someone to get nervous, and stab him on a whim.

“You are Bayaz,” said their leader, a heavy-set man with a grubby red plume on his helmet.

“Is that a question?”

“No. Our master, the Imperial Legate, Salamo Narba, governor of Calcis, invites you to an audience.”

“Does he indeed?” Bayaz glanced around at the party of soldiers, then raised an eyebrow at Jezal. “I suppose it would be rude of us to refuse, when the Legate has gone to all the trouble of organising an honour guard. Lead the way.”

Say one thing for Logen Ninefingers, say he’s in pain. He dragged himself over the broken cobblestones, wincing every time his weight went onto his bad ankle—limping, gasping, waving his arms to keep his balance.

Brother Longfoot grinned over his shoulder at this sorry display. “How are your injuries progressing, my friend?

“Painfully,” grunted Logen, through gritted teeth.

“And yet, I suspect, you have endured worse.”

“Huh.” The wounds of the past were many. He’d spent most of his life in some amount of pain, healing too slowly from one beating or another. He remembered the first real wound he’d ever taken, a cut down his face that the Shanka had given him. Fifteen years old, lean and smooth-skinned and the girls in the village had still liked to look at him. He touched his thumb to his face and felt the old scar. He remembered his father pressing the bandage to his cheek in the smoky hall, the stinging of it, wanting to shout but biting his lip. A man stays silent.

When he can. Logen remembered lying on his face in a stinking tent with the cold rain drumming on the canvas, biting on a piece of leather to keep from screaming, coughing it out and screaming anyway while they dug in his back for an arrow-head that hadn’t come out with the shaft. It had taken them a day of looking to find the bastard thing. Logen winced and wriggled his tingling shoulder blades at that memory. He hadn’t been able to talk for a week from all that screaming.

Hadn’t been able to talk for more than a week after the duel with Threetrees. Or walk, or eat, or see hardly. Broken jaw, broken cheek, ribs broken past counting. Bones smashed until he was no more than aching, crying, self-pitying goo, mewling like an infant at every movement of his stretcher, fed by an old woman with a spoon and grateful to get it.

There were plenty more memories, all crowding in and cutting at him. The stump of his finger after the battle at Carleon, burning and burning and making him crazy. Waking up sudden after a day out cold, when he got knocked on the head up in the hills. Pissing red after Harding Grim’s spear had pricked him through the guts. Logen felt them now on his tattered skin, all of his scars, and he hugged his arms around his aching body.